The great flood

Though spring has struck in the Bay Area with acacia and narcissus clogging the senses, I am flying back into winter on the other side of the Rockies. We fly over Alameda, Carquinez Straits, the upper bay is latte-colored from the floods. Standing water turns fields into giant mirrors for the sky’s vanity. The river channels are like worm castings, the broad expanse of water redefining the Peripheral Canal’s low shoulders— it’s like a sinewy lake, miles wide. I never expected to see the vestiges of the flood from the air, and so long after the fact. Brachial lungs of silt fanned out across green fields where burst levees gave up the burden, and guilt flooded the fields with remorse for a time when the rivers were unfettered by man.